Advent Calendar
by sagredo
Summary: Entries for Hades Lord of the Dead's challenge. Now proceeding in something closer to the order in which they were prompted! Chapter 7: 'Light' - prompt by Deb Zorski.
1. Chapter 1

"Holmes!"

"_What_?"

"Did you leave the spirit lamp on again? The deal table is on fire!"

"Is it...? Oh."

"It's burning, Holmes! It's on fire!"

"Yes, you mentioned that. How on fire is it, precisely?"

"_How_ on fire?"

"Yes – is it a 'run for your life' kind of fire, or a 'you have a few minutes' kind of fire?"

"Is it – Holmes! Get out of bed! There is no such thing as a 'you have a few minutes' kind of fire! The deal table is on fire _right now_!"

* * *

><p><em>AN: I refer the reader to the Granada episode 'The Cardboard Box,' in which the chemistry set acquires some festive new fire hazards. Ribbons and garlands can go up like kindling, after all..._

_Silly fluff, at any rate – but it is one hundred words, and all dialogue, as per the prompt. I will take my prize, now :D_


	2. Chapter 2

The deal table was hardly the prettiest piece of furniture to begin with, and was not improved by the fire. It was now charred where the flames had broken out. Strands of ribbon, curled and blackened along the edges, and crisped strings of garland lay among the debris of shattered ornaments and soot-stained glassware it now supported. Holmes, for his part, had apparently seen little need to correct this disarray, and after batting out the flames with his dressing gown – which in fairness was the nearest thing to hand, but was also not improved by the exercise – simply stretched himself out upon the sofa, shut his eyes, and resumed what he had been doing when the fire had broken out.

I stood before the smoldering ruin of the deal table, contemplating the wreckage. It was liable to remain unaltered, it occurred to me, until Holmes had need of his chemical equipment once again. It seemed a very strange comment on the season that our sitting room should for the most part now be festooned with burnt christmas decorations. Holmes had used practically everything in my modest box of ornaments in trimming the chemistry set, after all.

I glanced at him where he napped on the sofa and frowned.

There was a time, of course, when I might have quickly become very angry with him. At that first meeting of ours, when he had insisted we confess the worst of ourselves to one another before agreeing to share rooms, I had, after all, thought immediately to tell him I kept a bull pup. I had done so especially in those early days of my return from Afghanistan. But, overtime, as I lived with him, it began to occur to me that if I were to loose my temper over every minor misdeed of his, I would soon exhaust myself. Holmes, it might be said, is on a smaller, domestic scale as much the Napoleon of crime as others of his acquaintance may be on more serious, international levels.

Currently, the Napoleon of crime was quite deceptively still where he lay on the sofa, one arm thrown across his chest and the other tucked up beside his head, breathing softly and appearing very innocent. At length he stirred, sighing, and seemed to mutter something about boot prints which may have been partly in french.

Heaving a sigh of my own, I acknowledged that I could not find it in me to loose my temper with him. Not at Christmas, certainly, when my vision was colored by seasonal good will over our shared friendship, some nostalgic sense of gratitude for the improbable turn for the better my life had taken when I'd met him – and, most immediately, the opportunity to once and for all do away with that shabby, mouse-colored dressing gown.

I gathered the singed garment up from the floor where Holmes had thrown it, shaking it out with a grimace of distaste before folding it over my arm to take it out to the dustbin. On the bright side, I considered, I now knew precisely what I was going to get him for a Christmas gift. And, I supposed, in some ways he was lucky he had negligently lit his chemistry set on fire and so necessitated the acquisition of a new dressing gown.

It was probably the only way he wasn't getting coal.

* * *

><p><em>AN: Bull pup: Victorian slang, meaning a quick temper :) _


	3. Chapter 3

_A/N: The events of this chapter directly precede those of the first two, and will explain why Holmes slept through a fire. The also probably contribute to Watson's calling him the Napoleon of crime._

* * *

><p>It is an informative if tedious exercise to observe the varied terms by which my erstwhile biographer has been pleased to describe me in print. Unfortunately, while he is apt in applying some of them, he is hopelessly inaccurate with others. This is, in his defense, only to be expected – but at times I must confess to experiencing a twinge of annoyance over certain instances in which his errors are particularly egregious.<p>

Take this matter of my supposed command of a certain 'athletic grace'. While the suggestion is flattering, the dark truth is that such coordination is acquired. It is an admittedly rare but nonetheless occasional occurrence that I encounter a ruck in a rug, or a crooked paving stone, or worst of all nothing, and for a moment a bit of an awkward youth spent with long limbs is called to mind. On one occasion, Watson's sleet-covered boots, left to unthaw on the entryway tiles, were sufficient to precipitate a disaster.

Hence the fate of the hall mirror.

I had only just concluded a murder case which had not been entirely without features of interest, and was returning from Scotland Yard. Having provided Inspector MacDonald with the identity of the actual culprit, his entertaining theories on this point notwithstanding, I was in reasonably high spirits. I strolled home through the dusting of snow covering the footpaths, long since turned dirty and grey by London, swinging the hatchet with which I had demonstrated that certain of the victim's wounds could not have been formed prior to death casually and whistling. I was relieved to find myself pleasantly tired after the work I had done in solving the matter. For once I could have been happy to do nothing for the remainder of the evening but update my commonplace books and share a drink before the fire with my friend.

Still whistling, I climbed the four front steps to the door of 221, Baker Street, turned my key in the lock, and strode in. The breath of warmth and the honeyed glow of the lamps that greeted me as I did were pleasant. I did not see Watson's boots.

Yes. It's true. I did not see them. One would be justified in saying I failed to observe them. I had spotted that a wax key had been used to enter the home of the victim of my last case by the depth in the scratches around the lock, but I failed to observe a pair of boots sitting directly in front of me.

I stumbled over them – dramatically, if I am honest – and flung out an arm to steady myself. This arm terminated in the hand which held the hatchet. Whether it was fortunate or not that this flew from my grasp is debatable. If it hadn't, I might have fallen on it. Such as things were, I was aware as I sprawled on the tiles of a plash of breaking glass. I was picking myself up when Watson burst out of the sitting room and came bounding down the stairs.

"Holmes!" he cried, pausing on step fifteen (counting downwards from the top), "Are you alright? I heard a crash and thought someone had broken in through the window."

"Fine," I muttered tersely, brushing at the muddy sleet-melt that my overcoat had soaked up from the floor.

It was then that I looked up to see the hall mirror. Mrs. Hudson's Grandmother's mirror. Shattered.

With a hatchet jutting damningly from the epicenter of the damage.

Watson, seeing my expression of horror, came down the stairs to see what I was looking at. When he did he immediately adopted much the same expression.

"That looks like seven years bad luck," he declared.

"That's preposterous," I scoffed.

"I mean that that's probably how long it will take for Mrs. Hudson to forgive you."

I shrugged, conceding the point. "I suppose there isn't any way she would believe that was your handiwork."

Watson nodded, then appeared to realize something, and shot a scowl at me.

I ignored this in favor of sighing: "At least I cleaned the hatchet before I brought it home from the morgue."

Watson's grimace indicated he agreed. "What," he asked at length, when we had both spent another moment of stunned silence staring at the grim tableau before us, "are we going to do?"

It is worth pointing out that that is the kind of man Watson is. The kind to thoughtlessly borrow himself trouble on behalf of a friend. So I felt all the more that I was, for his interpreting the broken mirror as _our_ problem – though it would have been a smarter move on his part to go back up to the sitting room and leave me to my own difficulties.

"Merry Christmas, Watson," I wished him on a whim.

"What?" he replied, glancing at me sidelong as though I had said something mad.

"Was the timing off?"

"What?"

"Nothing," I dismissed quickly. "Holiday cheer and Christmas spirit, et cetera. I haven't quite got the hang of it. Never mind."

Watson sighed, placing his hands on his hips and looking back at the mirror. "Well, it's a good job Mrs. Hudson is out. I suppose we'll have to remove the hatchet and tell her what happened when she returns. And offer to pay for the mirror. And the damage to the wall."

"That, actually," I remonstrated in affront, "depends entirely on how long she is going to be out."

"All evening, I think," said Watson. "She's gone to a friend's in Holborn. Why?"

"In that case we have plenty of time to take that mirror up to the lumber room and find a replacement."

"_Holmes_," Watson scolded.

"Not for the _whole_ mirror, obviously," I retorted. "Just the glass. The frame is undamaged."

"Except for at the back, where it is pinned to the wall by a hatchet!"

"Which new glass should cover nicely. As well as concealing the damage to the wall."

"Holmes," snapped Watson, "we are going to go about this honestly."

"You may, if you wish," I replied, crossing to take hold of the hatchet and yank it free. "If you can do so before I have returned and fixed the mirror."

So saying I turned and dashed upstairs to stow the hatchet someplace. Watson followed at a more sedate pace, shaking his head and frowning.

I opened the door to my bedroom and threw the hatchet inside, before shutting it again. Watson moved to stand on the hearthrug in front of the fire, crossing his arms and continuing to frown at me balefully.

"You know, you place me in a very awkward position," he said at length.

I paused halfway to the sitting room door. "I'm afraid that that was hardly to be avoided. You are a paragon of morality, after all."

Watson turned his scowl towards the rug, seeming somewhat uncomfortable with such praise. "It might not hurt you to follow my example, Holmes – meagre though it actually is."

"To the contrary," I returned with a laugh, "I think it might hurt me very much. I can only imagine what Mrs. Hudson might do if she learned of what happened to her mirror."

"I could tell her, of course," Watson challenged. "Regardless of whether or not you're able to replace the glass before she returns."

"But you wont," I shrugged. "And even if you did, I would deny it."

Watson looked very put out at this, and so I was quick to take my leave – considering that the shops would not be open much longer anyways.

Outside, new snow was beginning to fall, flecking the soot-stained stuff on the footpaths with white before melting in amongst it to become equally gray. I paused on the doorstep to turn up the collar of my overcoat, exhaling a in a puff of vapor, considering where best to find the piece of mirrored glass I wanted.

The shape and dimensions of the mirror were common enough – a simple rectangle, about the length of my forearm from elbow to fingertips on one side and elbow to wrist on the other. And the glass had been beveled, I reminded myself. It wouldn't do to leave out such a detail – or Mrs. Hudson should see past my ruse at once.

Actually, I reflected, rolling my eyes as I set off in the direction of the shop I had in mind, she might not. It might take her weeks to notice that the border of the glass in her mirror was no longer beveled. She might never have remarked upon it to begin with. Such, for the most part, was human nature. But, of course, it would be better not to risk it.

The shop I wanted was nearby – in fact only at the end of Oxford Street – and I was pleased to find it still open. They did not, in fact, have unframed pieces of glass, so I was obliged to purchase a finished mirror which I could later dismantle to serve my purposes.

All told this took me under a half hour.

I chuckled to myself as I left the shop, the new mirror wrapped in brown paper and tucked under my arm, feeling pretty well assured of my success. It was a very slim chance that Mrs. Hudson had returned already. In fact, if I were to hurry back, I would probably only find Watson sulking in his armchair, still upset. Perhaps, I considered, it would be prudent to give him a bit longer to come around to forgiving me. So, I walked around the corner of the building to lean against the brickwork beneath an awning, planning to smoke a cigarette before returning to Baker street.

In retrospect, the part of this plan which proved to be unforgivably stupid is very clear.

I stood facing across Oxford street, so that the open footpath of the road which ran perpendicular to it was at my back. This, it is obvious now, made me awfully vulnerable to approach from behind. What was worse, the new snow had put down a decent layer since I'd been in the shop, muffling the sound of footfalls on the pavement. I had no idea I was in any danger, until I was coshed roughly on the back of the head.

My cigarette case, which I had only just opened, tumbled from my hands into the snow, as did the mirror. For the second time that evening, I heard the sound of breaking glass as I struck the ground.

The irony, for a moment, was sickening. Then, all was black.

As bad as irony can be, it is often far worse to wake up bound to a chair after having been struck into unconsciousness. It is in fact the second worst way to wake up – the first being underwater, and the third being in the gutter. For a moment I was only aware of a throbbing in my left temple and a sharp, tight stripe of pain running up the side of my neck. Then my senses cleared a bit, and it became apparent that I was sitting in a hard chair with my wrists bound to its frame behind me, and my head slumped on my chest. I must have been there for some time, as I had developed a terrible critch in my neck. Beyond this, and the fact that I was in a cellar, judging by the smell of damp and the packed earth beneath my feet, which probably belonged to one of the row houses on Nichol street, going by the slippery, clay-like quality of said earth, the fact that the chair I occupied was pushed back against a root bin, and the accents of the voices I could hear filtering through the floorboards above me, I could tell nothing. The darkness in the cellar was total.

And, of course, I had also now broken my second mirror of the evening, the glass of which had been crucial to the repair of the first. This repair now having been rather set back by the necessity of obtaining a second piece of glass, with the added difficulties that the shops would now be closed and I was tied up in a cellar, it was very unlikely that it could be accomplish before Mrs. Hudson returned home. In fact, she was almost undoubtedly there already.

I cursed, shifting where I sat and attempting to roll out some of the tension in my neck. Then I cursed some more. When I had finally tired of cursing, still alone and in the dark, and it appeared that my captors were in no hurry to have much to do with me, I began to consider escape. I tested my bonds. They were actually decently done, and held quite firm – though the root bin behind me still offered some hope. I leaned back slightly, searching blindly over the bit of its surface my bound hands could reach. At last, feeling along a corner, my fingertips brushed up against a protruding nail. I smiled, shifting slightly again, and began to see about using this to fray the rope that held me.

Unfortunately I was not at this long before my captors decided to pay me a visit at last. The cellar door banged open, a yellow rectangle of light appearing before me and a little above, illuminating a shallow, crooked staircase. I flinched at the brightness and watched through squinted eyes as five men filed down this, two of them carrying lanterns. I was happy when the cellar was cast again into semi-darkness, but not about the numbers I was up against, as the five of them clustered around me.

"Well, well, well," smiled the lanky, hatchet-face – I cringed to think of the metaphor – fellow nearest me, holding up his lantern. "Look who's awake."

"How do you do," I mocked.

"'Es a real toff, aint 'e," Hatchet Face continued to grin. "What nice manners."

"High praise, from the likes of you, I'm sure," I returned, before addressing the group at large. "Unfortunately I must ask you to keep this interview brief, gentlemen, as I'm afraid I was previously engaged on an urgent matter when I was kidnapped."

"What's 'e on about?" the other man holding a lantern – large, rotund, and clad in grease-stained shirtsleeves - wondered.

"Come to the point," I explained. I would have waved a hand impatiently if, I could. "Introductions, and then demands. Who are you, why abduct me, and what do you want."

"That's easy enough," leered Hatchet Face. "Tell 'im 'oo we are, then."

Grease Stain leaned in a bit closer, the bewildered expression on his face exchanged almost as if on cue for a look of menace. "We're the fellers what was 'ired by the feller what 'ired Jamie Tanner to put Tilly Banks in lavender*."

"Oh," I acknowledged, recognizing the names from my last case. "That figures."

"You're the feller what just put Jamie Tanner in lavender for murder," Grease Stain added.

"Thanks," I said, "I am aware of which feller I am. And now I'm shortly find myself in lavender – is that it?"

"No," declared Hatchet Face cheerfully, producing a folding knife from his sleeve and flicking it open. "Not, that is, until you meet the boss. You'll like 'im. 'E's a real toff, like you. Sent an 'orse an' trap fer you, and everything."

I was not really listening as he said this, but eyeing the knife and thinking. A knife I could handle. Against five men, of course, my odds weren't good – but, if I were quick enough, and could subdue the only one of them who appeared readily armed, I supposed it would be possible to make a break for the cellar door.

All hope of this, unfortunately, was dashed when one of Hatchet Face's silent companions pulled a revolver from within the corduroy jacket he wore and shoved the barrel roughly beneath my chin.

I sighed, and thought of Watson's rather superstitious comments concerning bad luck.

"Bloody mirrors," I grumbled, renewing Grease Stain's look of confusion.

Hatchet Face's smile, however, did not diminish. He moved to cut my bonds with the knife, tutting over how I had managed to fray them, while his companion with the revolver continued to jab me in the throat with it. Mr. Revolver yanked me to my feet once I was free, and in this manner I was conducted up through the shabby, decaying house and into the street. There was indeed a four wheeler waiting there for me, ominously black, and pulled by a black pair. In keeping with this theme, the black-clad driver hopped down from the box and placed a bag of black sackcloth over my head. My hands were re-bound, and I was shoved inside. Mr. Revolver accompanied me, maintaining his weapon's position against my jugular.

"This all seems a bit needlessly dramatic, don't you think?" I sighed to him as I felt the four wheeler begin to pull away. He said nothing, but jabbed me pointedly in the throat with the gun. I took this as indicating that I was meant to keep my mouth shut, as well. Sighing again, I settled back against the plush seats as comfortably as I was able, and turned my attention to detecting what I could about my surroundings.

I must, I knew, have presented a very cavalier figure. That was my intention. It never does to acknowledge to one's abductors that they have the upper hand – never mind that they generally do. In actuality, however, my nerves were rather on edge. That my situation was dire was obvious. In fact, my life was very probably in grave danger. Rather than dwell on this, however, I focused acutely on noting and cataloguing every turn we took as the four wheeler proceeded through London, straining my senses for any bit of data about our route that I could gather. I intended to know precisely where I was when I arrived. I had one or two neighborhoods in mind as possibilities, knowing where a man with the means to own such a coach and pair might reside. I had not thought that our journey would be long.

Unfortunately, it was very long. I had to admire my companion's stamina, after a while, as the weapon pressed to my throat hardly wavered.

Eventually we found ourselves well outside the city. We continued along what must have been the beginnings of a lonely country road at a maddeningly unhurried pace, and I was quickly beginning to grow exhausted. I had been tired when the evening began. I thought of Watson, who I supposed had gloated a bit over my failure to return with a mirror to replace the one I'd broken, informed Mrs. Hudson of my guilt in the matter, and then gone to bed early, and felt somewhat miserable.

It was at this moment, however, that my fortunes finally took a turn for the better.

Mr. Revolver, seated beside me, shifted to rest his weapon on my shoulder, and yawned.

I perked up instantly. If he would only let his guard down for a moment – drowse a bit, or even shut his eyes when he yawned again – I felt I had some chance of escape. It was not a quarter hour, however, before a better opportunity occurred. The gun at my throat drooped suddenly, as though he might actually have dropped off to sleep, and then his hand slid from my shoulder.

I was up in an instant, throwing my whole weight blindly against the carriage door.

This, of course, roused Mr. Revolver, who to his credit reacted quickly and caught me by the tails of my coat as I sought to make my escape. We tumbled together from the four wheeler and onto the ground.

It was a second mercy that the loose cloth bag over my head nearly slipped off as we did. I managed to squirm out of it as Mr. Revolver collected himself and struggled up to a crouch, just in time to see him raise his weapon as though to strike me with it. I delivered a kick to his solar plexus before he could, and rolled to my feet as he doubled over. Then I was off like a shot into the sparse woodland on the side of the road, the driver's cries and the report of Mr. Revolver's namesake echoing behind me.

From there it was a very long walk back to London.

I ran somewhat aimlessly for a time, seeking only to put distance between myself and my captors, before I was sure I was safe from their pursuit. Then I set about freeing myself from the rope that bound my wrists. I was able to fray it with a jagged rock until, after a seemingly interminable interval, I could finally break it. I stood in the woods for a moment, dirty and tired, rubbing my sore wrists gingerly and attempting to take my bearings. I was thankful, at least, that it was now daylight. When I had some idea of the direction in which I ought to proceed, I commenced trudging. And trudged, and trudged. All the way back to the city, where I was able to hail a cab.

I was in a terrible mood by the time I reached Baker Street. For one thing, my first thought once I was out of danger had been of tobacco. Unfortunately, of course, my cigarette case was lying in a snow drift somewhere at the end of Oxford Street.

Once again I climbed the four front steps to the door of 221, Baker Street, turned my key in the lock, and strode in. I was not surprised, when I did, to find the broken mirror removed from the wall, revealing the ugly gash left by the hatchet. I was, however, extremely surprised to walk into the sitting room to find both Mrs. Hudson and Watson sitting before the fire, looking very grim and worried.

They jumped to their feet in unison when I entered.

I thought of the sight I must have presented, and said: "I can explain all of this."

Neither of them seemed to hear, however. "Good heavens, Holmes," Watson exclaimed, crossing to take my now muddy and disreputable overcoat and hang it on the coat stand, "we'd nearly despaired of you. You're not hurt?"

"No," I said. "Tired, but no."

Mrs. Hudson next accosted me, standing before me with her hands clasped in the manner she does when concerned. The utter lack of ire in her manner, I admit, produced the queerest feeling of constriction in my chest. "I'll pay for your mirror, of course," I blurted, not knowing what to say. "And the wall."

"Never mind that just now," she said, and would, I suppose, unless practice had accustomed her to restraint, have patted my arm. "We'll have plenty of time to discuss it later. The Doctor and I are just glad to see you home. We had begun to think something terrible had happened."

_It _was_ terrible_, I grumbled internally, but said: "Not to worry, Mrs. Hudson. I am quite alright. Now, perhaps you would be so kind as to start breakfast? I'm sure Doctor Watson is quite famished."

"Of course," she nodded. "I'll have it ready within the half hour. Just you sit down and rest."

I had nothing clever with which to reply to that. She hadn't even said anything about my keeping the mud off of the furniture. And, anyways, I intended not to sit down to rest, but to go directly to bed.

Before I could, however, Watson asked: "Holmes?"

"Yes?" I yawned, turning to face him where he stood, sorting through the morning post.

"What did happen?" he inquired, opening a telegram. "Bad luck, I suppose?"

"Seven years worth," I assented. "Now if you'll just excuse me -"

"Wait a moment," he interjected suddenly, offering me the telegram he held. "This just came from Lestrade. I think you need to see it."

Reluctantly, I accepted it. Regardless of my recent run of bad luck, it appeared that my sentence concerning the mirror had not yet been fulfilled.

"I don't believe it," I scoffed, crumpling the telegram and tossing it back onto the table. "I demonstrated incontrovertibly that Tanner was the murderer last night. And now they call my conclusions into question over _this_?"

"Perhaps Tanner has friends in high places," Watson pondered. "As unlikely as that seems."

"Actually, he has friends in the middle of nowhere, with a needlessly ominous four wheeler," I said tersely. Watson's brow knit slightly at this, but he didn't ask what I meant.

I strode with some asperity to the deal table and lit the spirit lamp. Further proof of Tanner's guilt, it appeared was needed. At least, I considered, with a little chemical work, I would have one more piece of evidence to offer. And obtaining it would not be a delicate procedure. Once it was running, in fact, it would not require my supervision. I could leave it unattended.

And then, finally, I could get some sleep.

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><p><em>*'In lavender': Victorian slang, meaning to be in prison, or dead.<em>


	4. Chapter 4

"If you," I bit out, "say the words 'Tanner,' 'Banks,' or 'circumstantial evidence' -"

"Actually," interjected Lestrade, "I only dropped by because I think this might be yours."

I straightened up from where I was working, pleased, at least, that he had not asked how I had known it was him. He had entered the sitting room unannounced while I was engaged scooping the shattered remains of much of my glassware from the deal table and into a box, with my back to the door, and I had snapped at him before he could say a word. I was further surprised, when I turned to face him, to see what he held in his hand.

So surprised, actually, that I asked without thinking: "But how did you know it was mine?"

The look that crossed the man's face at this was somewhat remarkable.

"Well," he expounded, beaming. "I found it at the end of Oxford street as I was passing by the other night. I saw it lying on the footpath, and thought to myself: Mr. Holmes lives near here, and owns a silver cigarette case. Of course, it was probable that you had passed by there yourself, and dropped it. When I picked it up, and found that the cigarettes it held were your brand, it seemed fairly obvious."

I stood staring in uncertainty at the proffered case for a moment, before finally coming to myself and reaching out to accept it. I had not previously been aware that my brand of tobacco was something Lestrade was capable of identifying.

"Thank you, Lestrade," I managed - sincerely, if haltingly. "Your summary of events is...almost entirely accurate. I am pleased that you happened to come across this. I have been missing it a good deal."

"Think nothing of it, Mr. Holmes," smiled the little professional. "And Merry Christmas to you."

I wished him the same as he turned to go, opening the case briefly to check that my cigarettes had survived their hiatus.

The real miracle, I decided, lay in the fact that every one of them was still perfectly good.

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><p><em>AN: A continuation of the convoluted timeline covered in the previous chapters. I'm thinking I should change the title of this collection to "Nonlinear Advent Calendar." (Which I'm aware is also lagging behind. Finals. Apologies). At any rate, now that the fate of Holmes' lost cigarette case no longer hangs in the balance, I think we can safely consider this plot tied off. I have, after all, left only the most prominent ends loose, in true cannon style. _


	5. Chapter 5

As I took a seat alone at the breakfast table, for the dozenth time, I had to wonder if Holmes had been avoiding joining me for meals because he expected I would take the opportunity to ask him something which he didn't wish to answer.

"Holmes, come and eat," I said, "and I promise not to say a word about Tibet."

He looked up from where he was leafing through a notebook beside the deal table with an expression of puzzlement. "Why should that make a difference?"

"Because you know I wish to know about it, and you don't wish to discuss it."

He frowned, considering this, then set his notebook down, turning to face me with his hands in his pockets. "There is not much to discuss," he shrugged.

"Really?" I wondered.

"Really," said Holmes. "I could offer at best two points of interest concerning my time there."

"Only that?" I pondered. "But what are they?"

Holmes sighed, but crossed to fall into the chair across the table from mine. "Best part of Tibet?" he enumerated, "It's an expansive, wild, remote maze of astonishingly difficult terrain, which makes it very difficult for people to find you in it. Worst part?" he reached for the toast. "Yak butter."

_A/N: My train of thought over this one went something like: "butter...yak butter...Himalaya...Tibet...hiatus fic..." Yep, so those are the kind of desperate random maneuvers my mind enacts when dealing with a prompt it finds difficult. But, said prompt also inspired the latest chapter of Theme and Variations, which runs along similar lines but takes place in a much angstier universe. Thanks to Spockologist for all the material :)_


	6. Chapter 6

It was somewhat perplexing to receive a telegram as a christmas gift. However I knew that Watson had been very busy with his growing practice and the responsibilities of newly married life, and so I confess that once I considered things it began to seem reasonable, if a little out of character for my sentimental friend, that I should receive something through the mail.

But, a telegram?

I wondered, tearing the envelope, with the festive little border of pine and ribbon he had no doubt taxed his artistic skills and the patience of a clerk to draw, if perhaps he meant to inform me of a potential case. He sometimes came across them, through his patients or acquaintances, and some matter to look into might have made a very good gift.

I was further surprised, however, to first register that the message appeared to be nonsense – and then in the next instant recognize it to be a simple cipher similar to one which I had broken before, and described to Watson in the narrative he later published under the title _The Gloria Scott_. I read, with interest:

_You needn't have overlooked the inspector's umbrella. It was lost. He was of course very saddened. But, kindly, the other yarders (that it cheered him little was eminently clear, however) gave him their ardent condolences. He may recover, nevertheless, entirely. _

As soon as I registered the intended message I'm afraid I rather lost my holiday spirit.

"The cheek!" I cried, crumpling the missive in my hands. "The intolerable cheek!"

I tossed the telegram into the grate, and fell into my armchair to plot my revenge.

Watson clearly had no idea what he was up against.

* * *

><p><em>AN: Apologies to John von Neuman_


	7. Chapter 7

Though his adventurous profession does provide a biographer with an excess of material, Holmes himself is not an easy man to write about. It is all too easy, rather, to find oneself writing about only one of his extremes, neglecting the other entirely, and so fail to give an accurate representation of the whole man. In point of fact, one does not often find Holmes at equilibria. Like a sinusoid, he oscillates back and forth between two poles – lethargy and action, ennui and vigor, mania and depression.

Light and darkness.

I portray him as the hero in my writings. Always, he acts on the side of justice, even when taking the law into his own hands. Though his manner is cold and aloof one sees, at times, that he feels compassion for the plight of his clients and anger at the injustices foisted upon them. He is a creature of the intellect, and not the heart – but he is a good man.

But this is one of his poles. Its opposite, of course, exists in him as well. One might argue that the capacity for wrong as much as good exists in every man, but Holmes himself makes me doubt this. I can see myself, for instance, in comparison to him as a man who lives almost solely at an equilibrium. If my polar opposite is to be found anywhere on earth, it does not exist as a facet of my own make up.

I wanted to believe, for a long time, that Holmes was not so different from myself in this way. But I have seen the times when he does not act on the side of justice, but as an agent of his own interests in an intellectual game, and nothing more. I have seen the cases in which the sufferings of his client mean nothing to him, and it is the work, and only that, which he wants. I have even found myself manipulated and used by him, when it served his purpose, though he counts me as his only friend. After so many years at his side, the duality of his nature grows only more difficult to deny.

"You have never asked me to be anything different," he says at last. He's been seated on the hearthrug with newspapers and his commonplace books spread out around him, updating them after his latest case, and I wonder as I look up at him what gave my thoughts away. He holds my gaze only for an instant before his sharp, grey eyes flick back to his work, and for once he offers no explanation. It is likely that he has deduced the question which is currently more prominent in my mind just as easily.

What if I were to ask him to be different? Would he try?

On the one hand I can imagine him remarking casually that it is just as well that I waited until now to ask as much of him, as both of us are financially solvent such as to no longer require a flatmate to split the rent. On the other the hurt he might feel at such an insinuation, and the conflict with his very self it might engender, come to mind with equal readiness. Which pole would I find him at, I wonder, were I to ask?

But of course, I acknowledge, as I return to writing in my journal, I never shall.

That, I understand very well, is what makes me different from all the others that know him.

That is why I alone am his friend.

* * *

><p><em>AN: From the Goethe quote in SIGN - "Nature alas, made only one being of you, although there was material for a good man and a rogue."_


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